


A Bond Of Brothers

by ACandleLit



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anderson is a Holmes, Canon Divergence, Drug abuse both implied and directly shown, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-05-17
Packaged: 2018-01-07 03:21:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ACandleLit/pseuds/ACandleLit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are perks to being the oft-forgot middle child...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Defiant

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a prompt I came across on the kink meme calling for Anderson as Sherlock and Mycroft's brother. I can't locate the link now, go figure, but I figured I'd post it anyway. This is going to be a 30-prompt/30 chapter fic, and my goal is to post one prompt/chapter every day with an epilogue tying it all up as a way to get myself back into obeying deadlines. Enjoy!

(Mycroft – 12; Anderson – 10; Sherlock – 5)

No one knows where he got it from.  Mummy is agreeable more often than not, but her anger is subtle and sneaky.  Papa is stubborn and incredibly set in his ways, but he prizes obedience and order.  Mycroft settled into his role of the perfect son without even really realizing what he was doing, which made sense considering the regard he held effort in, the lazy git.  He did largely as Papa asked, occasionally exploiting loopholes in a way that usually stunned their father into some shade of pride, but actual defiance had never been his style.  The eldest Holmes boy had perfected the art of doing as he pleased while making everyone think he was doing as _they_ pleased early on.

Where Mycroft was the perfect son, everything Papa could ask for and more, Anderson got lucky as the semi-invisible middle child.  Most kids complained about being the oft-forgot middle child, the ones usually overlooked in favor of the younger and older children.  Anderson thrived on it.  Early on, he had figured out that he had no real interest in anything his father would like to see in his future, and Mummy, as much as he loved her, existed on the completely opposite end of the scale for him.  Still, there was no real defiance in Anderson, either; if Papa took enough notice to demand a thing of him, Anderson usually did it without much complaint. 

Sherlock, however, seemed to take a particularly masochistic glee in openly defying their father.  Punishments—rare but not unheard of for both Mycroft and Anderson—were so regularly doled out on the youngest Holmes brother that Anderson swore he could set a watch by them.  Their father was not a violent man, and therefore the punishments were more uncomfortable than painful: several swats to one’s behind, a stern lecture, an hour or more in the corner, confiscation of objects of interest, confinement to one’s bedroom, withholding a meal, nothing too damaging in the long run. 

And not a damned one of them ever seemed to do much to curb Sherlock’s acting out.  The only thing that had any effect at all on him seemed to be the melancholic look of disappointment on Mummy’s face when she caught him misbehaving, and even that influence didn’t hold for more than a few days at the most.  Sherlock, it seemed, was just a born troublemaker. 

So when the fights at school started, no one was really all that surprised. 

“Sherlock, have you lost your mind?”  Anderson hissed as he knelt in front of his baby brother. 

The boy in question pointedly trained his eyes on the ground.  Sherlock was roughed up, hair mussed and uniform askew and a bit of blood where he bit his lip.  Mummy was going to have a _fit_ when they got home.  She hated seeing any of her children in any sort of discomfort, which was precisely the reason Papa was the disciplinarian.  He checked the small injury, and breathed a small sigh of relief to find that it looked worse than it actually was.   

“Well, the good news at least is that your lip isn’t too badly injured,” he said as he stood up and took Sherlock’s hand.  “We can clean it up properly when we get home.”

Sherlock said nothing, eyes still focused on the ground as they left the schoolyard and proceeded down the sidewalk.  They came to a crosswalk and had to wait for the light to change, the pause making Anderson aware that the younger boy was trembling a bit. 

“Sherlock?  You okay?  They didn’t hurt you too bad, did they?”

“I’m not a freak, right?”

The outburst caught Anderson by surprise.  A freak?  _That’s_ what they were calling him?  Why would anyone call Sherlock a freak?  He wasn’t as social as other kids, yeah, but there was nothing wrong with that.  It’s not like Anderson was the most talkative kid in class, either.

“No, you aren’t a freak.  Now _Mycroft_.  He might count as a freak.  Shows up everywhere!  It’s like just saying his name summons him!”

Sherlock giggled a bit, more from Anderson’s embellishments than anything else.

“Which name summons whom?  It might be a good idea to know should I wish not to inadvertently summon this person.

Both brothers stiffened and turned to see their older brother a foot behind them.  There was a moment of expectant silence as Mycroft fixed them with a look that confirmed Anderson’s fear that he had heard more of that than he really wanted him to.  The moment passed and Sherlock started laughing again, Anderson giving Mycroft a sheepish grin. 

“Sorry, Myc.  Nothing cheers him up faster than making fun of you, it seems.”

Mycroft gave him an unamused look.  “A quirk I sincerely wish you wouldn’t encourage, Anderson.  Now, Sherlock, I see you’ve been involved in another altercation.”

“I didn’t start it,” the five-year-old snapped.  “I was just reading and they started calling me a freak!  I tried to ignore them, like you told me to, but they didn’t leave me alone.”

“I know, Sherlock,” Mycroft responded with a sigh.  “I can tell from the state of your clothing how it happened.  We’ll avoid the main entrance today.  Mummy should still be at the Kirklands’, and Papa is not due back home for a few more days.  If we are careful, we can reach a washroom without being caught.”

They do in fact manage to get to a washroom and avoid notice.  Thank God for Wednesday afternoons; no one ever really seems to pay much attention on Wednesday afternoons.  Anderson’s the one to actually clean Sherlock’s lip—he has steadier hands than Mycroft and Sherlock simply likes him better.  By the time the scant amount of blood is cleaned up and Sherlock’s got his clothes straightened, he’s gone right back to his usual self.  He calls Anderson out on a failed quiz (how he figured that out Anderson has no idea, and he refused to believe a _five-year-old_ got that from the cuff of his right sleeve) and claims that Mycroft indulged in a second piece of cake at lunch.  The look on Mycroft’s face is enough to prove Sherlock right. 

As usual, Sherlock gets in trouble again as the evening progresses, but Papa goes only for a small lecture which Sherlock will make a point of ignoring later on.  It’s enough to convince Anderson that everything will be okay. 


	2. Powder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, here's the next chapter. This one gave me a bit of trouble; had to rewrite it a bunch of times before anything started to flow with any sort of decency. Now, a few warnings/mentions here before we start off: the following contains DRUG ABUSE. Really should go without saying, considering the chapter name and who we're dealing with, but still. Also, I make reference to a canon/OC relationship that we will likely see more of in later chapters/works in this particular universe that I've built up. There's a bit of foul language going on as well, though I personally consider it rather mild given the circumstance. I think that should cover the worst of it, but if you catch anything that I forgot to mention, please don't hesitate to draw my attention to it. Thank you, and enjoy!

(Mycroft – 24; Anderson – 22; Sherlock – 17)

The first time they catch him, Mummy is too stunned to do little more than sputter.  Mycroft removes her from the room with far more grace than any twenty-four-year-old should have in such a situation.  That it leaves Anderson do deal with his freshly-high brother goes unmentioned.  And Sherlock is certainly high now, leaning back against the wall and headboard of his bed, eyes closed as the drug invades his bloodstream.  Anderson feels something tighten inside of him at the implication that Sherlock has done this before.  There’s anger, there’s pain, there’s guilt (because there must have been _something_ they missed, it’s always _something_ ), there’s anguish that the seventeen-year-old is so selfish and stupid as to do _this_ to them, to Mummy.  Because as much as it hurts Anderson to think of his brother as an addict, it will hurt their mother much, much more.

The dull thud of the syringe on the carpet pulls him out of his thoughts and returns his attention to Sherlock.  The little bastard’s sleeve is still rolled up and there’s a small drop of blood at the injection sight.  The glint of red in the dull light of a cloudy evening is enough to shove all other emotions to the side and enhance his anger.  So Anderson storms over to the bed, carefully scoops the used syringe and deposits it on the bedside table before grabbing Sherlock by the shoulders and heaving him up to a properly seated position.

“You selfish _bastard_ ,” he hisses as he tries so very hard not to grip too hard.  “When the _hell_ did you start this up, Sherlock?  No, why _the hell_ would you ever decide that this,” he tilts his head in the general direction of the syringe, “was any way a good idea?”

“Oh, do shut up, Anderson,” Sherlock responds, not as clear as he should be but far more lucid than Anderson had expected.  “I’m not an _idiot_ ; it’s not a pure solution, just enough to make things tolerable.”

“ _Tolerable_?!  _Tolerable_?!  Have you lost your damn mind?”

“Not at all; it’s quite the opposite, in fact.  I find my brain works better with the assistance of cocaine.”

The urge to hit Sherlock has never been so strong in his life. 

“Cocaine?  You...you...Do you have any idea the risks you’re taking?”

“Oh, honestly; I’m _fine_!” Sherlock insists as he struggles against Anderson’s hold.  “I’ve diluted it enough that I get the optimum benefits with the minimum amount of risk.  It took some work and a bit of experimentation, but—”

“The hell sort of game do you think you’re playing at, damn you?!  You could have a fucking _heart attack_ , or a stroke, or your goddamned _kidneys_ could shut down without warning, I don’t care how much you think you’ve diluted it!”

A strangled bit of self-depreciative laughter taints the air.  “Please, I’ve found that most people prefer me high rather than sober.  Even Mummy has found me particularly more agreeable these past few months.”

It’s like a punch to the stomach, remembering how much more pleasant Sherlock had been recently.  His mood had been so much better than it was a year ago, back when he had been sixteen and snappish and irritable with the world as a whole.  Mummy had been so pleased when his mood seemed to improve, commenting on how she had missed seeing him even a bit happy.  To think that all of that was the result of drug abuse... he’s fairly certain he’s going to be sick. 

“How the hell do you think she’s going to feel now, you ass?  Mum’s going to drive herself mad over how _obvious_ this all is in hindsight and when Dad hears what you’ve been doing—”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass what he thinks,” Sherlock hissed, grabbing Anderson’s wrists.  “In fact, I don’t care what _any_ of you think!  I’m not snorting it, I’m not smoking it, and I’ve been careful about the amount I take at any given time.  I will only say this once more, Anderson, so please _try_ to wrap your unbelievably primitive mind around this simple concept: I. Am. _Fine._ ”

It’d be more pleasant to have a bucket of ice water dumped on his head.  Sherlock had never called him stupid before.  Sure, Anderson didn’t possess the dizzying amount of intellect that Mycroft and Sherlock did (and he thanked God for that every day), but never once had either of his brothers called him _stupid_.  The shock was enough for Sherlock to slip out of his hold.   

“Mycroft, get out of the way!”

“And let you go to wander the streets at this hour, compromised as you are?  You’d have better luck getting a snowball to survive a stint in the boiler.”

“You can’t keep me locked up in here,” Sherlock insists, all but sneering as he straightens his coat.  “I will not be tethered to my bed like some sort of _criminal_.”

“Mummy’s beside herself,” Mycroft responds casually, as though they’re discussing the weather.  “And make no mistake, brother mine, I will not allow you to further upset her by running off and engaging in activities that may prove even more... _hazardous_ to your wellbeing than the abuse you already put it through.”

“ _Piss off_ ,” he hisses as he tries to shove past him.  “What I’m doing can’t be any more _hazardous_ to my _wellbeing_ than all of that cake can be to yours!”

“Oh, how mature.  A comment on my weight made by an addict.  I’ll be sure to take it to heart.”

“I am not an addict,” Sherlock shot back.  “I don’t need the cocaine; it’s merely a means to an end!”

“And what end would that be, Sherlock?  An early grave, perhaps?  Mummy weeping over it and wondering over and over again where she went wrong?”

“Shut up!  Why don’t you go eat some pie or go back to your fiancée and _leave me be_?”

“That’s enough, Sherlock.  You will remain here until you sober up, and then we will discuss this like grownups.  Anderson?  Will you help me locate anything he may have hidden away?”

It’s the first time Anderson does anything remotely resembling a drugs bust, and unfortunately, it won’t be the last. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and, once again, don't hesitate to call me out on any grammatical or spelling errors you may have encountered while reading. This is not beta-ed, nor is it Brit-picked, and while I do try my best to catch everything before I post there are things that slip through. As Sherlock says, there's always something.


	3. Grateful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the unexpected hiatus; series 3 nearly killed me and my course work almost finished the job. I have a few weeks' break before my summer obligations begin, so I hope to get this as close to finished as I can before then. Ideally, I want to post one of these every day, but that will all depend on whether or not I send my laptop in to be serviced. Still I hope you all enjoy this, those of you still interested in this!

(Mycroft – 25, Anderson – 23, Sherlock – 18)

The first time Sherlock overdosed, they almost hadn’t found him in time. 

Anderson had been the one to find him, and he hadn’t even been looking. Sherlock was supposed to be clean; he had only been released from the rehab clinic a couple of months prior. As far as Anderson had been aware, Sherlock was at university, tormenting his classmates and driving his professors insane. How the hell Sherlock had ended up in Bromley, of all places, Anderson had no idea.

He was new to the forensics team, out on his first field assignment—a mugging gone foul, it seemed, but the gunshot wound to the poor girl’s temple seemed much too clean to Anderson for it to be little more than a simple mugging—and the only reason he had gone anywhere near the alley had been because here was a few drops of blood. If he hadn’t glanced up and to his right...a shudder always rips through him whenever the thought comes up. 

Leaving the crime scene got him an impressive tongue lashing from his superiors, and he nearly lost his new job when he told the scene manager off—as politely as possible—and insisted to join his brother in the ambulance. Between that and the fact that Sherlock nearly died three separate times before they got to the hospital, Anderson had never been more wrecked in his life. Dead bodies didn’t bother him. The only rise blood, guts, and gore got out of him was when they were so pathetically fake, he’d criticize the special effects team while tossing bits of popcorn at the screen. Yeah, he felt some sympathy, but he had known what he was going to see when he decided to pursue a career in forensic science and criminal justice. It’s one thing to observe a crime scene and deal with witnesses and distressed loved ones when there’s a degree of distance between him and them—it’s another thing entirely when it’s his own brother fading fast in the back of a bus. 

Mycroft and his new P.A.—a relatively quiet girl whose name he never could remember—arrived within minutes of Sherlock’s admittance, entering the waiting room just as Anderson hung up the phone on his incredibly distraught mother. The eldest Holmes brother had a way of appearing perfectly calm and collected even as he hurried across the room; it wasn’t a genetic trait, as Anderson tended to wear his emotions on his sleeve (something his coworkers claimed would go away the longer he stayed on the job) and Sherlock was more interested in appearing disinterested with the world at large. 

“I take it the doctors are already seeing to our wayward brother?”

“He was supposed to be clean,” Anderson muttered as he pushed back his hair. 

Mycroft exhaled, shifting his weight. “Relapse in cocaine addictions is rather high; it was to be expected that he would slip up at some point, I suppose.”

“And what the hell is he doing in Bromley? His university isn’t anywhere near Bromley!” 

“I believe that is a question best answered by Sherlock himself,” the elder brother answered, his tone light and conversational, as though they were discussing the weather. 

Anderson didn’t reply, his hand covering his eyes as he tried to convince himself that they would get to ask Sherlock why he was in Bromley and not in school. The one thought that had been driving him insane had been the concern that he hadn’t found Sherlock in time. He had no idea how long his younger brother had been in that back alley, nor did he know how long the cocaine had been in his system. Anderson’s skill was with dead bodies, and he was grateful Sherlock had still be alive when he’d found him, even if it was just barely. 

“Mum’s beside herself.”

“Of course she is; her youngest son is currently undergoing treatment for a cocaine overdose. If she hasn’t worked herself into hysteria by now, then I worry about how much she cares for us.”

It was all Anderson could do not to roll his eyes, though his lips twitched a bit. For some reason he would never understand, there was a general sense of animosity between his brothers and their parents. Sherlock, Anderson could understand—he always was the more rebellious of the three of them—but Mycroft? Papa’s favorite had always been Mycroft. It was Papa’s connections and Mycroft’s intelligence that had given him his position in the government. (What exactly he did, Anderson had no idea, but he sincerely doubted it was just the “minor position” his brother claimed; what “minor position” required a personal assistant?) 

“Did you get a hold of Rowena?”

Mycroft nodded. “She will be here in approximately forty-five minutes, if traffic allows.”

Between Mum and Rowena, Sherlock had managed to remain clean for over six months. Really, it was much more Rowena’s doing than Mum’s, because Mum had no idea how to go about keeping her son clean; Rowena dealt with addicts for a living. (The fact that Sherlock had all but idolized her when he was growing up went unsaid; she was the one who put the idea of detective work in his head.) In all honesty, Anderson liked her; she was a rather friendly, personable sort of person. Even if her introduction into their lives was the result of a nod to old customs, Mycroft probably couldn’t have found any better for himself. 

The brothers sat in silence until both Rowena and their parents entered the waiting room, their mother still shaking and begging for any news on Sherlock’s state. When the doctors assured them that Sherlock was going to pull through, their mother nearly fell to the floor in relief. 

Anderson could yell at his brother later; right now, he was just too grateful that he still had a little brother to yell at.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Oh, and if you have any critiques, feel free to address them in the comments below! I'm still learning how to write these characters. However, do remember to be civil.

**Author's Note:**

> To be honest, this is the first bit of creative writing that I've published in several years, and I'll admit that I'm not all that pleased with it. (I will never understand why college classes so often require you to write novellas at the end of the semester; surely none of the professors actually have time to read no less than twenty 15 to 20 + page papers?) So, constructive criticism is both welcomed and appreciated. This is also not beta-ed and not Brit-picked, so if I got anything wrong please feel free to correct me. I do my best, but sometimes things slip through.


End file.
